


𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝗜𝗦 𝗔 𝗦𝗟𝗘𝗘𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗬 | 𝗠𝗔𝗬𝗟𝗢𝗥 𝗔𝗨

by OfficialDaddyMaylor (IAmDaddyMaylor)



Category: Million Dollar Hotel (2000), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s Era Queen (Band), Alternate Universe - 1970s, Character Death, Drugs, Falling In Love, Fucked Up, Gay, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Maylor - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, Murder Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Roger Taylor (Queen), References to the Beatles, Sad Ending, Tragedy, U2 - Freeform, everyone is fucked up in the head, skid row
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25658716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmDaddyMaylor/pseuds/OfficialDaddyMaylor
Summary: In a downtown London flea bag hotel, known as The Million Dollar Hotel, local residents are suddenly visited by a Detective who has been hired by grieving parents to look into the sudden mysterious death of their son who was believed to be pushed from the roof of the hotel. During the investigation of finding the killer, hotel resident Roger "Roggie" Meddows Taylor, a mentally challenged young man is suddenly drawn to tall and handsome Brian Harold May, a mentally troubled young man who is dubbed as the "neighborhood man whore." As the two become acquainted with one another, a budding romance begins which quickly turns into the truth being revealed.*****Based off the 2000 drama film The Million Dollar Hotel, directed by Wim Wenders and written by Nicolas Klein and Bono of U2. Story title belongs to Donata Wenders from her book titled The Heart Is A Sleeping Beauty: The Million Dollar Hotel Film Book. I own nothing but the idea. Enjoy.
Relationships: Brian May/Roger Taylor
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. For the first time, I feel loved

**Author's Note:**

> ***PLEASE READ***
> 
> Hey there, ViceCityfan1986 here with another story that I decided to share with ya'll since this has been in the works for awhile now. Welcome to The Heart Is A Sleeping Beauty, an alternate universe Queen fanfic based off Wim Wenders 2000 drama film, The Million Dollar Hotel which was written by Nicholas Klein and Bono from the band U2. If you have never seen the movie, I highly recommend that you do, or if you already have please don't spoil this for readers. I literally love this movie with all my heart. 
> 
> In this alternate universe, the band does not exist and they all live in a rundown hotel filled with a bunch of people with drug addictions and mental disorders and whatnot. Downtown London is being portrayed as downtown Los Angeles, kinda like skid row.
> 
> Special thanks to actor Richard Edson for his copy of the original movie script.
> 
> This story is rated Explicit/M for language, sexual content, possible drug use, mentions of rape and suicide, and a bunch more other dark things that others might find triggering.
> 
> A quick disclaimer that I'd also like to clarify that this is purely fanfiction, it is meant for entertainment purposes only and is no way shape or form meant to disrespect the members of Queen in how they are being portrayed in this story.
> 
> Enjoy. ❤

The chill of the early morning dawned on downtown London, the smell of trash from the slums rising up above the tall run down buildings. From his spot atop the roof of a hotel, known as The Million Dollar Hotel, that was anything but worth a million dollars, a young man watched what he considered would be his very last sunrise. Memories of the last time he was up here came flooding back to him. Painful memories. It was a memory that completely changed his life, making it hell for him and his friends who lived in the hotel. 

But if the things that happened that day never did, he would've never met the man who he loved so much. For the first time in his life, he felt loved. The man was truly a lover like no other. His soul was sweet and gentle. It brought a smile to his face that he found someone who cared so much for him. But he felt guilty for hurting him and never telling him what really happened up here. He never wanted to hurt anyone. Of all people, he never wanted to hurt his best friend. And now that the truth was out and people were after him to take him away from his home, he knew there was one thing he needed to do.

He looked away from the beautiful sunrise and focused his eyes on the other side of the rooftop, his gaze landing on the rusted Million Dollar Hotel sign, until finally landing on the roofs edge. He moved forward a bit, hesitating. The voices in his head began telling him to do it while another begged him not to. Making up his mind, he pushed himself away from the wall and broke into a full throttle run, his shoes pounding against the concrete with each stride. 

His heart pounding away like mad inside his chest from the rush of adrenaline, he ran with all his might and as he reached the halfway point, he heard that familiar voice calling out to him. He turned his head, grinning cheekily as he waved to him. He can hear him yelling something, but he can't make out the words. With one last wave and a smile, he turned back and focused on what was in front of him, and nearing the edge of the roof, he spread his arms out and jumped...


	2. The Ground Beneath His Feet

Wearing his dirty purple striped sweater and a pair of grey sweatpants, Brian Harold May walked the streets of downtown West London, his bare dirty feet avoiding broken glass, used junkie needles, and other general trash that littered the sidewalks. He kept his gaze on the ground with his arms crossed over his chest. He was on a mission to visit his favorite book store to read his favorite science fiction books and stuff about space. It was what he liked doing best and was a welcome distraction from all the chaos and drama of the crazies that resided in The Million Dollar Hotel, a place he's called home for the past ten years.

He walked past some children on the sidewalk who were huddled around a young blonde haired man he recognized from the hotel as Roger Meddows Taylor who everyone called Roggie as a nickname.

As if sensing him, Roger looked up, his blue eyes landing on the tall man with wild and untamed curly hair in the purple striped sweater. He felt his heart jump in excitement to seeing him and he was tempted to call out to him but the right words wouldn't come. The words of his best friend that he lost two weeks ago entered his mind, telling him not to waste his time with Brian May, he's just a dumb man whore and a slag and only wants to get fucked by random blokes on the street. Of course he never listened to what his best friend or the others would say about him since he never really understood what they meant. He didn't see him in that way. Whatever he was or wasn't, it didn't really matter to Roger. He considered Brian May as the love of his life even though he hadn't actually met him yet. 

"Oi mister, you gonna buy these or what?" one of the kids ask. "We don't have all day long."

He ignored the children and continued to watch as Brian walked the crowded sidewalk until eventually disappearing from sight. At that moment, the children gathered up the notes on the ground and ran off.

"Hey!" the young man yells to them.

The young man made an attempt to go after them but seeing as the children are much faster, he sighed in defeat and decided to go back to the hotel. Grabbing his satchel bag full of goodies for his friends, Roger jumped onto his scooter and rode along the crowded sidewalk, waving to the various bums and prostitutes.

As he neared the hotel he called home, he spotted a rather impressive looking car parked at the curb. At first he's tempted to investigate but the voices of his friends inside his most favorite place known as the hotel lobby distract him. It was a place where people from all over the building would come and talk about the good old days, back when they had insurance and lots of money.

"Roggie, you're finally back!" one of them greets him.

Roger smiled at his group of friends huddled around the tiny television watching some poker show. He ran over to them in excitement, sliding across the floor in dramatic fashion up to an old man in a wheelchair.

"Whaddya got for us today, Roggie?" the man asks.

With a huge grin on his face, Roger dramatically reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a wrapped sandwich from a nearby deli. The old man's face lit up and he eagerly took the sandwich. 

"Wow, thanks mate," the old man says to him.

Roger turned to his other two friends, Elton John and David Bowie, who were both struggling musical artists. They were currently focused on a poker game playing on the TV. From his satchel of goodies, the blonde handed them packets of cocaine wrapped in plastic.

"Good job, Roggie," David says to him with a smile.

Elton checked the time on his watch. "10am, David switch it."

"Roggie, switch the channel would you," David says to the blonde.

With an excited high pitched squeal, Roger grabbed the remote and jumped onto the opposite couch. "I now present the gods of television!" he says as he changes the channel to the news. "Whooooo!"

"Hey Roggie, you got anymore I could buy off ya?" a voice asks.

Roger turned and smiled to another friend offering out a plastic sandwich bag filled with coins. He reached into his satchel once more, and at that moment, the friends bag of coins ripped and money dropped out everywhere.

"Shit!"

"I help!" Roger squeals, jumping off the couch.

He scrambled around the floor to pick up all the coins when all of a sudden, a pair of neatly shined dress shoes appeared right in front of him. He slowly looked up, his eyes landing on a well dressed man he had never seen on this side of London. He looked like a wealthy rich man. Fascinated by his appearance, he stood up as the man brought out a badge and began to address the people in the lobby.

"Good morning!" he bellows, holding out his badge for all to see. "My name is Special Agent Detective James "Miami" Beach of the FBI. Now if any of you have any questions you'd like to ask me--" He was suddenly cut off as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and whirling around, he grabbed the hand of a young man with messy bright blonde hair that looked stringy and unwashed. "Oi now, don't touch."

The blonde giggled. "Sorry."

The Detective eyed him. "What's your name?"

"Roger," he says, his tone of voice raspy and high pitched. "Roger Taylor. Or Roggie. Doesn't really matter."

He smirked. "You'll do. Take me to his room."

"Who?" Roger asks, giggling again. "Who? Who?"

"What are you, a bloody owl?" the Detective asks. "I'm talking about the dead man, uhh...Farrokh Bulsara."

"Freddie," Roger corrects him. "Freddie Mercury."

"Ah yes, Freddie Mercury," he says. 

"Uhh John," Roger says, pointing upwards. "Hi-ho."

Jim furrowed his brow to the weird behavior of the blonde. "Well hi-ho, let's go on up then."

"Hi-ho!" Roger repeats, bouncing up on his feet with a giggle.

The Detective looked over at David and Elton. "What is he, a bloody idiot or something?" he asks them, gesturing towards Roger.

David and Elton just offered him apologetic smiles in catching on quick to Roger's slowness.

Just then, another sharply dressed man with a mustache and a kind face walked over. "Miami, I don't think we'll solve shit around here. This place is an absolute freak show."

"Give it time Freestone, we'll get this solved," Jim says.

"Excuse me, coming through!" an old man in a wheelchair shouts.

Nearly being run over, Freestone jumped back. "Oi watch it, will you?!" he shouts after the old man.

"Freestone, this nice young bloke here has agreed to take me up to the victims room," Jim says. "Why don't you wait down here and keep everyone at bay."

"Sir with all due respect, I was asked to accompany you on this investigation," Freestone tells him.

"I'll be fine. Stay down here and observe protocol. You got a freight elevator here?" he asks, looking around the lobby.

Jim Hutton, the hotel manager and desk clerk nodded. "Yeah." He looked at Roger. "Show him where it's at lad."

Roger grinned and skipped his way towards the elevator with Miami following behind him. As they ascended upwards to the one of the top floors, the blonde grinned over at the Detective.

"You know a man's home is a man's castle," he says to him.

The Detective didn't respond or look at him.

"You know a man's home is a man's castle," Roger repeats.

"I heard you the first time," the Detective says.

"Why did you say I was an idiot?" the blonde asks.

Miami glanced at him, eyeing up his poor taste in clothing. "Just a wild guess."

Roger gave him a cheeky grin. "It was a good guess." He then frowned. "Oops, we went to high," he says, pressing a button. "Gotta go back down a few floors."

At last they reached the floor and the doors opened.

"Room 339 just down the hall," Roger says, jumping out of the elevator.

"Thanks," Miami mutters, moving past him.

Making finger guns with his hands, Roger followed after the Detective while pretending to shoot invisible bad guys as they approached Freddie's room.

Finding the door unlocked, he walked in without knocking while presenting his badge. "Detective Beach, FBI!"

A startled looking young man with long dark brown hair and greyish green eyes whirled around, watching as the man in the suit took pictures of the room while glancing at all the canvas paintings, paint cans, and clothes scattered everywhere. The room itself was a total pigsty, dirty and messy and no doubt filled with hidden stashes of drugs. 

"W-W-What's going on?" the young man stutters. "What are you doing in my room?"

"This is Farrokh's room and you're not him," Miami tells him.

"You mean Freddie?" the young man asks. "We were roommates."

"Ah I see," Jim says, taking notice of the heroin scars on the young man's exposed arms. "Junkie roommates?"

"Something like that," John mutters, pulling the sleeves of his shirt down. "But I'm clean now. Anyway, what's this about?"

"I'm here to solve the murder of Farrokh--I mean Freddie Mercury," Jim says.

"Murdered?" John asks, his eyes wide. "No he...he committed suicide." 

"Well we believe he was pushed from the roof," the Detective says. "We're here to find the killer before he possibly strikes again..."


	3. I Am The Walrus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character of John Dixie belongs to Bono and Nicholas Klein. I'm using him 'cuz I couldn't come up with anyone else to play his role. He's also one of my favorite characters in the movie and Peter Stormare was amazing as him. Anyways enjoy and excuse mistakes I don't catch in proofreading. ❤

"Young man, what's your name?" the Detective asks.

"John Richard Deacon."

"As a main suspect, are you willing to cooperate with us during this investigation?"

John nodded. "Yes sir."

"The press may also get involved in this so I'd like to ask you some questions regarding--"

At that moment, the door creaked open and the two looked over to see Roger standing in the doorway.

"Hey Rog, what's up?" John asks him.

"Deaky gonna talk to Mr. Police Man?" he asks.

Jim walked over to the door. "Mr. Taylor, please excuse us," he says.

Roger looked over at his friend in concern and John waved him off.

"It's ok Roggie, we're just going to talk," he tells him.

With a nod, the blonde turned and left, and Jim shut the door. Then turning back, the Detective slowly walked around the messy room.

"Are these all of his?" he asks, gesturing to the massive pile of clothes on the stained mattress.

"Yes," John replies as Jim takes a picture. "I've been gathering all of his things up these past two weeks, y'know for his family to come get."

"These canvas paintings as well?"

John nodded. "Yes...well some of them."

"What else?" he asks, snapping more photos.

The young man stepped forward and picked up a cardboard box beside the mattress. "Oh uh, just these drawings. Freddie loved to draw. And there's another box around here somewhere with his head shots he did with photographer Mick Rock."

"What's your relation to Mr. Roger Taylor?"

"He's one of my best friends."

"And what was your relationship with...Freddie?" Jim asks.

John blushed. "Ummm...well, we were of course roommates a-a-and uhh, we had sexual relations during our addiction."

"Ahh I see," Jim says, trying his best to not look visibly disgusted. "How long have you been clean?"

"About a month now," John says. "Freddie on the other hand, he never kicked his addiction..."

*****

After John's questioning, Detective Beach went back down to the hotel lobby, which by now had become crowded with other residents. Seeing as others were going to be of no help in this investigation, he figured asking the hotel manager the whereabouts of certain residents he wanted to question.

"Are you Jim Hutton?" he asks.

The dark haired man behind the counter nodded. "Yes, that would be me," he says in a Irish accent. "How can I help ya, lad?"

"Do you perhaps know the whereabouts of Brian Harold May, Timothy Staffell, and John Dixie?" the Detective asks. "I need to speak with them if they're here. If they're not, I need to find them."

Jim thought for a moment. "Hmmm oh boy. Brian and Tim, I never see them that much but you could try Dixie. He never leaves his room. 439. He likes to be called The Walrus."

*****

Up in room 439, in a well kept room decorated with memorabilia of the 1960s rock band The Beatles, John Dixie, a middle aged looking man in his mid forties was sat on his bed, strumming away on an acoustic guitar. His appearance resembled much like the late John Lennon, only his face was more scruffy and unshaven and his shoulder length hair was a brownish grey. Known to everyone in The Million Dollar Hotel as The Walrus, he was a retired struggling musical artist who was quite delusional and believed he was the fifth Beatle even though he had never been in the band and had never been associated with the group.

"Someone's knockin' at the door," he sings. "Somebody's ringin' the bell--"

At that moment, a loud incessant knocking was heard at his door and he paused in his playing.

"Alright, alright already, I'm coming," he says. Setting down his guitar, he moved over to the door and opened it. "Yes?"

Detective Beach raised his badge. "I'm James "Miami" Beach, I work with the FBI as a Detective."

"You got some Oragel?" Dixie asks him as he steps into the room and looks around. "This fucking cavity's going into my brain. Morphine, Motrin, Tylenol, anything? Come on, you call yourself a dentist?"

"I'm a Detective," he corrects him. "Teeth, gums, and gingivitis are all out of my line."

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" Dixie asks as he sits back down on the bed with his guitar. "I've been calling you pretty little policemen for months now."

"Well we're here now," Jim says.

"Well it's about bloody time you showed up, somebody's trying to kill me!" he says.

He started strumming away on his guitar again and the Detective brought out his camera to take pictures around the room, impressed with the collection that Dixie had.

"I've heard it before," he sang. "Someone came through the door..."

*****

Frightened that the FBI were in the hotel, John Deacon climbed out onto his fire escape and ran up the stairs that led to the window of Brian May and Tim Staffell's shared room a few floors above him. His heart jumped for joy when he saw Brian sat on his bed by the windowsill reading a book. He knocked on the window and the young curly haired man jumped, and seeing it to be just John in his familiar Disneyland jumper and bell bottom jeans, he rolled his eyes and walked away.

"Oi!" John calls out, banging on the window while attempting to open it from the outside.

Hearing the ruckus, Brian's roommate Tim appeared from around the corner and grinned at the young man. "Hey Deaks, jump on in!"

Managing to get the large window to slide upwards, John jumped inside and glared at the tall curly haired man as he left the room. "Yeah thanks a lot Bri!" he shouts after him. "Jesus Christ, what the hell's his problem?" he asks Tim.

"Oh he's just a little fucked up in the head," Tim says. "But you ought to see his mum and dad, now they are really fucked up. What the hell, we're all fucked up in the head. You wanna take a hit off this?"

John glanced at the blunt Tim was offering and shook his head. "Probably not a good idea. There's a cop here and I just got questioned. He's trying to find out who killed Freddie."

Tim furrowed his eyebrows. "I thought that motherfucker jumped."

"I thought so too, but maybe he didn't," John says. "I think maybe someone here in the hotel killed him."

"Well holy shit, have you warned the others yet?"

"No just you guys. The cop is in Dixie's room right now so I told Rog to go spy on them."

*****

Hiding out on the roof just outside Dixie's room, Roger stood on the platform listening to the long haired hippie drone on and on about The Beatles to the Detective. Not once had they mentioned Freddie and Roger was starting to get bored. But like John told him, he had to stay put and listen.

*****

"...I've been calling your name. I called Liverpool, Interpol, even Paul," Dixie continues. "Since I wasn't officially in the band, you know how it goes, it ain't easy."

"Yeah, I hear you," Jim says. "But that's not why I'm here. I'm here because Farrokh Bulsara was pushed from the roof."

Dixie looked up at the Detective in surprise. "Oh you mean that junkie boy, Freddie Mercury?"

Jim nodded. "And that makes you a suspect."

"Well Jesus bleeding Christ, are you even paying attention to what I'm saying? I'm talking The Beatles, here! Y'know the Fab Four."

Unseen by Dixie, the Detective rolled his eyes to the clueless and delusional hippie and turned his attention towards his impressive record collection.

"John understood," Dixie says to him "That's why they had him killed, y'know? Now they're trying to kill me, because they finally realized who's behind all those songs. But I ain't seen no royalties."

"That's gotta be tough," Jim says to him, tired of his incessant yammering. "But you need to cooperate and pay attention to what I'm telling you, or I'll book you. Understood?"

Dixie chuckled. "I've been doing nothing but cooperating my whole fucking life. That's what it's all about to be in a band. I'm not saying they weren't creatively involved but most of the time, they were off with that Maharishi. You know, India, whatever, y'know. There I was, all alone in the studio with my brilliant ideas. Thank God I had George Martin, y'know."

Jim sighed as Dixie continued on with his monologue and moved back to the record collection where he picked up The Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band vinyl record. Inside was a full page picture of the four members all with mustaches.

"Oh, that album in particular, we grew together like this, me and George. That's what worries me. You're more worried about some flying suicidal junkie. You big mystery solver. Roll up, roll up! You better solve this: how the fuck could they have released that album without my face on the fucking cover? If you want to make a name for yourself, Sergeant, you go and figure that one out..."

*****

Back outside, Roger looked up at a hallway window on an upper floor and saw Brian and his unmistakable head of long and wild curly hair as he paused to light a cigarette before continuing on his way down the staircase. With the excitement of everything going on around him involving murder and mystery and special agent Detectives, the young man smiled, his heart jumping for joy in seeing this as chance to finally speak to Brian May. He ran over to the open window and jumped back inside just in time to see the tall man walk off the staircase and slowly walk down the hallway with a book under one arm. His head was cast down at the floor and he didn't seem to notice the blonde until Roger stepped in front of him.

"Hi," Roger says to him.

Brian looked at him, his expression blank as he nervously ran his fingers through his curls with the hand that held the lit cigarette. He slowly turned away and Roger followed after him, a look of curiosity and wonderment on his face as he gazed at the taller man's face. Brian stood still for a moment, glancing around the hallway as he took a drag and exhaled.

"You shouldn't smoke, it's bad for you," Roger says to him. "People get cancer and they...they die and stuff. They get cancer and they die."

"I can't die," Brian tells him in a tiny voice.

"You can't?" the blonde asks, astonished.

Brian turned away again. "I simply don't exist."

Roger followed after him, stepping in front of him. "How come?"

"I'm fictional," he whispers.

*****

"Sergeant, I don't know what kind of medication you're on, but Freddie was a dreamer," Dixie continues to Detective Beach. "We were all dreamers, you know. Haven't you ever read the interviews? Haven't you ever seen the tapes? I was driving to John's in my Aston Martin, and I was stuck in that intersection, y'know. All of a sudden it came to me, as I went into a dream. Somebody spoke to me. So I said to the voice "All right, all right." People think God spoke to John Lennon. You think God spoke to him? You think God sits around writing songs? I am The Walrus. God's just the middleman."

The Detective looked down at his watch, realizing he was getting nowhere with this hippie.

*****

Brian tried to move past but Roger blocked him again.

"You like space?" he asks the taller man, noticing the book under his arm.

Brian nodded. "Yes. I like astronauts. If I was real, that's what I'd be."

Roger seemed to understand as he nodded. "Rather than a man whore?"

Brian gave no reaction to the name as he puffed on his cigarette and avoided eye contact with the blonde. "Probably."

"Do you like that stuff instead?"

The curly haired man looked up at the blonde as if considering giving him an answer, but instead he kept quiet.

"I'm sorry," Roger says to him. "I just wasn't sure if you remembered me or not. Do you remember me?"

He pointed at himself and Brian looked at him again as he took another drag of his cigarette.

"I remember lots of things."

Roger giggled. "Wow. You remember my best friend Freddie?"

The other man stiffened and lowered his gaze back to the floor. "I have to go now."

"Yeah but--"

Brian quickly moved past him and the blonde watched as he walked downstairs, disappearing from sight. The blonde frowned, and feeling disappointed, he sat down on the open window sill.


End file.
